Deception

by Lisa Clark O'Neill

  He was scheduled to undergo another surgery in a couple of weeks, but until then he was forced to live with the ever-present pain which followed him around like a damn shadow, sometimes faint and hazy, sometimes so solid it was like it was a living thing, as well as having to rely on the stupid cane. He felt like someone’s geriatric uncle. Josh had meant well with the offer of help, but he was sick and tired of the disability, of being treated like he was something less than a full man. It was an overreaction, he knew, when so many other people dealt with disfigurements and impairments that were so much worse and way more permanent, but tell that to his fine Irish temper. Or maybe it was his ego. Either way, the whole gimp routine was getting old.

  Flipping on the overhead light in the food prep area, Rogan unlatched the back door. Standing on the concrete stoop, looking both exotic and uneasy in the security lamp’s bluish light, was the stripper from the company he’d contacted last week. Even if the heavy make-up, outrageous wig and black boots hadn’t given her away, the knee-length trench coat on this mild October evening would have offered a hint as to her line of work.

  “Hi,” he offered his hand as he ushered her in the door. “I’m Rogan. Glad you finally made it.”

  Wide greenish eyes – wary beneath the troweled-on eye gunk – skittered briefly away before returning to meet his head on. “Sorry about that,” she offered, shifting her weight from foot to foot. “I, uh… had some difficulty getting here.”

  Rogan’s brows drew together slightly as he considered the woman in front of him. “I hope the directions were okay.” Of course, unless she lived in a bubble or was new to the area, Murphy’s was a pretty big blip on the local radar.

  “Oh, not that sort of trouble. It was…” Again with the skittering eyes. “Car related.”

  Uh-huh. The girl was a really miserable liar. And unless Rogan missed his guess – something he didn’t do often – she was nervous as hell about what she was here to do. Super. Leave it to the kind of luck he was experiencing as of late to have hired a virgin stripper. Stifling a sigh, he motioned with his head for her to follow, and limped toward the downstairs bathrooms. “I wasn’t sure if you needed to change or… whatever,” he admitted, waving his hand toward the door marked lasses. “But whenever you’re ready, our bachelor is on the verge of passing out upstairs. You made it in the nick of time.”

  “I’m… sorry,” she said again, looking both sheepish and a little defensive. Her nerves were evident in the way she couldn’t manage to stand still, but then after a deep indrawn breath she seemed to make an effort to pull it together. Glancing at the bathroom door, she brought her hands to the belt on the trench coat. “I’m already dressed,” she allowed, and as the edges of the coat fell away Rogan did his level best not to gawk like a school boy. Holy cripes, the woman was built like a brick –

  “But if it’s all the same to you,” she interrupted his lascivious observation, “I wouldn’t mind a moment to just… get myself together.”

  Blinking, Rogan tried to find his tongue. The combination of the policewoman’s uniform, black go-go boots and red wig really should have been a turn-off. After all, his sister was a redheaded cop, which made the whole thing a little bit… well, nasty.

  But there was another redhead. Another cop. Another woman with an incredible body. And despite the fact that he’d been an asshole lately where she was concerned – hiding out like the pathetic cripple he was, dodging her calls, making himself generally unavailable – he had absolutely no trouble imagining her taking off her clothes.

  In fact, it was one of his favorite pastimes.

  Realizing that his little head trip made it look like he was leering at the stripper’s chest, which… well, he guessed that was kind of to be expected, wasn’t it? But still, it made him feel like some back alley pervert considering it was just the two of them alone in the corridor, so he cleared his throat and made it a point to look her in the eye. “I’ll be heading back upstairs now, so when you’re ready, just come on up to the second floor.” He pointed to the stairs which were just visible off to the left. “And thanks… um, you never did tell me your name.”

  He wondered if she’d give him some stage handle, like Honey or Cherry or what was that one Bond girl?… Pussy Galore.

  “It’s Samantha,” she told him, chin jutting up just a little.

  But underneath the tough bravado she’d worked up in the past few minutes, Rogan could see that the woman was wary. Hell, a lone woman, built like she was, wearing nothing but some uncomfortable footwear in a room full of drunken men? He’d be wary, too.

  “Look, Samantha,” his voice came out low, a lot softer than his usual gravel. “I just want you to know that this is a pretty good group of guys. But even good guys can turn into assholes when they’re faced and in a pack. So if anyone gives you any trouble or makes you uncomfortable in a way you think you can’t handle, you just give me a shout.” He smiled, throwing off just enough charm to make her feel at ease. “I’ll hit ‘em with my cane.” He waved said object in the air, and was rewarded with a small laugh.

  “Thanks,” she replied drolly. “That makes me feel a whole lot better.”

  “Thought it might. Anyway, I’ll see you upstairs.” With that, Rogan left the stripper – Samantha – to battle her personal demons, and swallowed more curses as he dragged himself and his gimpy leg back to the party.

  AND wasn’t he a charmer. Sam watched Rogan Murphy limp off. He looked like he’d just fallen off one of Blackbeard’s ships and wandered through a time warp. Even the bum leg added to the effect, bringing to mind visions of peg-legs and the walking of planks. There was something… untamed about him that must draw women to him in droves. If he ever got tired of the food and beverage industry, she was pretty sure he could have a career modeling for the covers of those historical romances that littered the check-out lanes of most grocery stores.

  Though his words of comfort had made her feel better, the fact of the matter was that she was disgusted with herself. Presentation, how she let herself appear to others, was something she knew how to carry off quite well. She’d learned, through years and years of practice, to never let anyone – any man, especially – see her fear. Not all men were animals, but there were plenty of predators out there, and if you let them scent your vulnerability you might as well paint a big, round target on the middle of your back. Or your breasts, more precisely.

  Steeling herself against what she was about to do, she planted herself in front of the mirror over the bathroom sink. Going up there looking like the proverbial doe in the headlights was not an acceptable option, so she practiced a big come-up-and-see-me-sometime smile, rolling her eyes when her attempts looked like something you’d expect to see on a laxative commercial as opposed to a centerfold spread. If she blew this, she’d never get any more bookings, and then she’d have to find another source of quick cash that wouldn’t land her in jail.

  “Relax,” she scolded herself. It wasn’t like she hadn’t been naked in front of people ever before.

  But this was different. The crowd upstairs wasn’t a group of avant-garde art students looking upon her body as simply a lush example of the female form, sketching her in quiet contemplation. No, these guys were a bunch of over-sexed, under-couth, liquored-up rowdies. She could hear them hooting and hollering even through the closed door. Murphy’s assurances aside, the situation made her feel nauseous, and she shot a desperate glance toward the porcelain god in the closest stall, praying that it wouldn’t require her to once again bow down and worship. There wasn’t anything left in her stomach to present as an offering anyway.

  “Suck it up, Martin.” She would have splashed some cold water on her cheeks, except she feared she’d create a make-up landslide, so she settled for drawing a couple of deep breaths. She needed the money, and as awful as this was, this was just about the quickest, easiest way to earn a buck.

  Legally, anyway.

  Shuddering, pushing aside the growing worries that had fester
ed in the corners of her mind since her older brother’s accident, Sam thought of all the times Donnie had sacrificed in order to take care of her. Donnie, her beloved brother, the savior of her childhood. Who currently lay comatose in the hospital, with no one to assume responsibility except for her. Overcoming a little trepidation, a little misplaced modesty, was small potatoes in the grand scheme of things. And the company she was working for had an excellent reputation. They screened their clients and made sure they were sending their employees to somewhat reputable locations under very clear circumstances. This was not an escort service, or any other form of expected or implied prostitution. She was here to take off her clothes, give the groom-to-be and his cohorts a good show and a few fond memories, and anything beyond that was strictly Not Gonna Happen. The girl who’d turned her onto this line of work had informed her that one of her friends had gotten the boot for having sex with the prospective groom at one of these things, which relieved Sam to no end.

  In her opinion, the damn groom should have gotten the boot as well.

  Hoping that this particular bachelor had higher morals than a snake, Sam attempted another smile, which – thank God – at least looked half-assed as opposed to painful. Then she slipped out of her coat, gave her lips one final coat of gloss and let out her pent-up breath.

  “Okay, Sam.” She straightened her shoulders, tucked the riot of red curls under the uniform’s hat. “Show time.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  “HEY.” Josh stuck out his hand toward Clay’s best man, a tall athletic-looking guy by the name of Jesse Wellington, who was a friend of Clay’s through the Bureau. “I’m Josh.”

  “Ah.” The man’s intense blue eyes glittered with alcohol-induced happiness as he pumped Josh’s hand. Ouch. He had an incredibly strong grip. “The infamous Josh Harding – the cop who took three bullets and still managed to put in a call to the FBI, saving a couple of kids and scoring a wicked new hairstyle while he was at it.” He slung a thick arm over Josh’s shoulder with the friendly familiarity of the seriously drunk, then parted Josh’s hair to get a look at the scar he’d incurred from a bullet grazing his head. “It’s nice to meet you, Josh. Clay told me you tried to steal his woman.”

  Shaking his head over the confusing verbal onslaught while surreptitiously flexing his crushed fingers, Josh laughed and stepped away from the bigger man, who currently had no concept of personal space. “Yeah, well, I think that steal is a bit of an exaggeration.” He’d found Tate – Clay’s intended – to be quite attractive, it was true, but he’d only harbored licentious thoughts until he’d gotten to know Copeland.

  “That’s good,” the best man said agreeably. “It’d be a shame to have to kick your ass.”

  Under normal circumstances, Josh had to confess that might be a possibility. Wellington had about four or five inches and a good forty pounds on him, most of it solid muscle, and he was federally trained in unarmed combat. And while Josh was in pretty darn good shape, if he did say so himself, the truth of the matter was that his recent convalescence had sapped some of his strength. It would probably be a little while yet before he was up to his fighting weight.

  But as it stood, he could probably knock down half of the men present with no more than a stiff finger. Most of them, present company included, were barely standing as it was.

  “You know, I have a war wound, too.” Wellington had inched past that personal space cushion again, gesturing to his own shoulder. “Wanna see?” He made to take off his shirt.

  “Actually, I really don’t.” Josh swallowed a laugh and looked for an easy exit. He didn’t know Clay’s friend well enough to be comfortable with the shedding of clothing. And he still hadn’t made it over to offer his hellos to Clay. He was just about to excuse himself to take care of that little social nicety when a shrill whistle pierced the steady din of drunken conversation.

  “Looks like the entertainment’s arrived.”

  That comment came from Declan Murphy, Rogan’s identical twin brother, who’d materialized behind Josh while he’d been otherwise occupied trying to convince the best man to keep his clothes on. The hackles on Josh’s neck rose. As much as he liked Rogan, there was just something about the brother that seemed to set Josh off. He didn’t want to say the guy was an asshole, but… well, the guy was an asshole. He was an agitator – going about his business in an entitled manner, seemingly unconcerned by the amount of shit he stirred up. He was cocky as hell and from what Josh could tell, like rubber. No matter what happened, things just seemed to bounce right off him. He did whatever he wanted and to hell with the consequences. But before Josh could move out of range of Declan’s unwanted company, the crowd pressed into them as men parted to create access to Clay. Then like everyone else, Josh’s gaze shifted toward the stairs.

  Standing at the top of the steps, whistle dangling between her slick red lips, was a reason for every man between the ages of eighteen and eighty to commit a misdemeanor just so they could resist arrest. It was a good thing none of his co-workers actually looked like that in a uniform, or the city would be experiencing a crime wave the likes of which it’d never seen. Josh laughed, peeling his gaze away from the vision in blue long enough to check out Clay’s reaction. Even three sheets to the wind, a little color seemed to have returned to his cheeks.

  “Damn. She can cuff me any time she wants.”

  For once, Josh had to agree with Declan on something. He couldn’t really see the woman’s face, given the hat and the red curls bouncing beneath it, but her body was something else. Then she moved, walking with a purposeful, hip-rolling gait that caused every pair of male eyes present to cross. She made her way over to Clay, who was currently stunned into insensibility, his mouth gaping open in surprise. Then his eyes narrowed and darted toward Declan, who raised his pint toward the other man in toast. Apparently the Murphy brothers had neglected to inform their new cousin about this portion of the night’s entertainment.

  “Enjoy!” Dec called out, and then murmured something about himself and sloppy seconds. As Josh was sort of partial to the man’s cousin and thought she might deserve a little more respect than that, he executed a half turn and glared at Declan. “You’re not actually encouraging him to have sex with the stripper, are you? Because last I checked, the man was engaged. To your cousin.” Off to the side, Josh could hear the curvaceous cop prattling off some spiel designed to lead Clay to believe he was under arrest.

  Declan’s left eyebrow kicked up in condescension. “So what? It’s not like I’m going to tell her.”

  Josh studied him, and decided he wasn’t kidding. He really was a sonofabitch.

  Correctly interpreting the look, Declan snorted and then shook his head in disgust. “You know, I always thought the whole Andy Griffith thing you have going was just a ruse, but I guess you really are a Boy Scout aren’t you, Harding?” He snapped off a mock salute. “So tell me, if Clay looks but doesn’t touch, are you going to give him a fidelity merit badge?”

  Dude was begging to get popped. But seeing as how starting a brawl was bad form given his occupation, not to mention the fact that this was supposed to be a celebration, Josh merely stared at the other man and kept his tone no harm, no foul. “You’re an asshole, Murphy.”

  “You just now figuring that out?” Declan reached out and grabbed Josh’s bad shoulder, hard enough to make Josh bite back a grimace and wonder if the other man hadn’t done it on purpose. “Now turn around and enjoy the show, Joshie. It’ll give you something to think about when you’re alone in your pup tent tonight.”

  Irritation might possibly have overridden common sense, causing Josh to offer a five-fingered retort, if he hadn’t been struck so completely and utterly dumb by the sight that met his eyes as he wheeled around. A low, classic striptease song had begun to play, replacing the hard-driving rock which had been strangled when the “cop” made her appearance. All around him the crush of sweaty, liquored-up males grew thick as they edged closer to the action, encouragement and boisterou
s, off-color advice bouncing around amidst the smoke which hovered overhead in a thin blue cloud. And in the midst of it all sat Clay – official looking uniform hat now perched at a jaunty angle on his head, a token from the stripper – hovering between profound embarrassment and reluctant appreciation as the woman continued the act.

  Her now freely-flowing red curls – a wig, no doubt, but a good one – spilled riotously down her shapely back, but what struck Josh was the way she moved. There was something familiar about the thrust of hip, the way she looked teasingly over her shoulder as her fingers moved deftly down the buttons of her shirt…

  Something in her smile – tremulous and a little uncertain before morphing into a more professional grin.

  The line of her jaw…

  Her upturned nose…

  “Show us the goods!” Declan bellowed in good humor, and the stripper glanced his direction before blowing him a kiss. He caught it, pretending to tuck it into his pocket. “Yeah, I’ll just put that to good use later.”

  Everyone laughed, including the woman, but Josh had seen something else, something decidedly uneasy, flit briefly behind her eyes before she’d masked it. She stopped with the buttons, left the shirt open just enough to allow a hint of magnificent cleavage, before stepping behind Clay’s chair to run her hands playfully down his chest. It was all in good fun – the stripper stopped shy of touching Clay in what might be considered an inappropriate manner – but there was something about this that just seemed wrong.

  He must truly be turning into a damned Boy Scout, because for reasons he couldn’t explain he wanted the woman to button up that shirt and get out of there. And what the hell did that say? Because any red-blooded man not dead and buried wouldn’t pass up the chance to see –